Archive for the ‘Hull’ Tag

On my hangover walk in Hull I spotted this rarity: a postbox without a regal signifier (VR for Victoria, GR for George V, EIIR for our Betty, EVIIIR for the hardest ones to find, etc). My eyes weren’t working to well yet, still adjusting to the light and the alcohol poisoning induced brain damage. As such, I thought the graffito on the side rudely said “Fuck the Welsh,” and was pleased to see it more clearly in the photo.

I walked for a couple of hours after finally keeping down the 2nd half of my coffee, Sunday. The temperature rose into the mid-20’s C (upper 70’s F) and I think I sweated out the residual alcohol from the night before by the time I looped back into the centre from the bleak and loverly industrial zone along the River Hull in the northern reaches of town.

Now hungry, I opted for a greasy burger with bacon and a stilton sauce, some chips and onion rings (also greasy), and a medicinal lager in the Wetherspoons around the corner from the train station. Everyone was watching football (I think this was the day Hull got relegated to the 2nd tier). I felt human, again.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Larkin was the only Hull native I knew of when I planned the trip (save for the DPhil student in the lab where I work) and he was the first statue I found seeing as it is on the rail platform. His words — not the family-accurate “They fuck you up,” but the family-friendly bits of his canon — are all over town on a walking trail I might do formally on a less-hurried visit (here are some I just stumbled across).

Amy Johnson was a cool find, though. She flew much of the globe contemporary with Amelia Earhart.

A reconstruction of the plane, Jason, she flew to Australia (in what could only be described as an epic journey) hangs from the ceiling of the rail station and its small scale brings home the enormity of her adventure.

The Queen’s Dock is now a public garden, but Daniel Defoe’s most famous character Robinson Crusoe set sail from here:

Victoria isn’t from here but a lot of the Empire was accessed from these docks.

William Wilberforce was an abolitionist MP from Hull who made the founding of Freetown, Sierra Leone possible. His statue appears to show him using some sort of 19th century i-phone (typical politician, probably sending engravings of his junk to a constituent).

I booked the Inkerman Tavern for my room in Hull because it is kind of in the middle of an industrial area. It is actually better to stay in than that sounds but it isn’t luxurious. Perfectly adequate for someone who planned to (and succeeded in) drinking himself into a coma and good enough for the not-too-picky traveller, it was clean and quiet and the staff couldn’t have been a nicer bunch. The woman in the photo was tending bar when I checked in and gave me the rundown on the flood mural on the way to my room.

The room was separated from the bar far enough that the karaoke would not have bothered me had I not finished the night listening to it in the bar. Those kegs were still stacked up when I awoke so I didn’t knock them over on my way to bed (and I must have gotten there under my own steam since it was dead-locked from inside) but, as previously mentioned, I overdid it a bit on the night.

Large whiskeys (waters back) came one after another and I had encounters with a couple that each eventually did a number at karaoke, a couple of boys that were heading off to the Navy or RAF soon, and some cross-dressers (one about my age and another about 10 years younger) that were starting the evening here before moving on to Frankie’s later. Lovely joint, here.

At one point, a woman came around taking photos of the punters and I got out my camera to take one of here. I must have accidentally triggered the shutter while lifting the camera and got a shot of the elephant at the bar similar to the ones I spotted at the Dram Shop hours earlier.

I was on my way back to my room with the intention of stopping at Frankie’s Vauxhall Tavern for a quick whiskey to see what the crowd there was like. There was a guy singing 60’s-80’s pop hits and he had a great voice so I stayed for a few slower whiskies.

A thin man in a sharp suit dashed in and started dancing with wild abandon — at least that’s what I think it would be called: wild abandon or, even, dancing. Some young folk were shooting billiards in the back bar and there was a scattering of people, like me, at the bar but most were piled up at the tables in front of the singer (I think one table was celebrating with their nana for her birthday).

I don’t know if any bar in Hull is really a gay bar but this one promotes itself as friendly to everyone in ways that would make you think that it must be. And, there were some camp aspects but, again, that could go for any bar in town. The rubber dick on the wall of the bar near the crisps notwithstanding, of course.

I awoke Sunday certain I must have said something like Dylan Thomas’ last words (“I’ve had 18 straight whiskies……I think that’s the record”). I was afflicted with the kind of hangover that, when you see signage in Arabic, you wonder if it is just brain damage or maybe you’ve found your way to the Qatar during your black out. The ones, above, were on some council towers near my room and probably just said, “Resident parking only. No ball games.” Still, it seemed prudent to take photographic evidence in case I need to see a neurologist later.

The day before, I stumbled upon The Land Of Green Ginger and the George Hotel with one of the tourist items that, while recommended by a native who works in my lab, didn’t interest me enough to seek out (but it is probably somewhere near the sign).

I wasn’t sure about this block in the pavement but there’s a dirty joke in it if you just lower your standards a bit. Go ahead, I’ll wait:

I really should start a “trademark infringement” tag. “You’re out of parmesan! You’re out of parmesan! The WHOLE PIZZERIA is out of parmesan!”

From the absurd to the poignant, the X could be from a Brexiteer or a Remoaner. At least we’re all one, again. Similarly, up here you see a lot of Union flags and a lot fewer St George flags as if to say to the neighbours to the North that we’re better together, just not with those European bastards.

Eventually I got a beer and a shot and the staff couldn’t have been friendlier. All were busy prepping for real customers (the ones that would stay around for a while) but all seemed to stop by for a brief chat.

“TWAT OF THE WEEK” was that guy in the photo under “THE,” but if you aren’t sure of the choice then it might be you (it IS written on the mirror at the back of the bar for a reason):